The sharp whistle of the wind
slithered and slinked through the branches of the empty trees outside as rain
thrashed against the window. The waves below the small cliff, upon which the
little inn stood, were relinquishing the terror they had promised the day
before. The storm, as predicted by meteorologists, was in full tilt at three in
the morning of March 27. The waves that normally lapped at the rocks below,
were today like the damned reaching their long, white, foamy fingers up from
hell.
Lawrence Wilcox awoke as thunder
screamed across the sky, lightening framing his face as it struck a nearby tree
that cascaded down the rocky slope and into the ocean. It took him a moment to
take in his surroundings, having to remind himself where he was. His bizarre
sleep schedule was due to the upsetting events of the night before, which had
taken place at a very unfortunate hour.
In the very early hours of the
morning previous, Lawrence was awaken by the ringing of his flat telephone in Sutton,
London. An urgent voice spoke very quickly, alerting him that his father had
fallen down his short staircase after having suffered yet another heart attack.
Without haste, Lawrence had risen, haphazardly packed and taken a flight from
London to Dublin. One short bus ride later, he found himself at one of city’s
large hospitals. His father, who lived in Blackrock, a small suburb of Dublin,
had had two previous heart attacks. Each time, Lawrence had flown over, staying
in his father’s home and visiting him in the hospital.
Neither of his eldest brothers was
ever bothered to visit their dad, in hospital or otherwise. In fact for the
past eighteen months the only times Lawrence had seen his father was when he
had had a heart attack. The family had never been close. After their mother had
passed away, when the boys were all still in grade school, their father, always
addressed as ‘Sir,’ became married to the bottle. Their childhood was bitter
and cruel; Lawrence did not blame his brothers for never visiting. Lawrence had
a difficult time betraying his father, no matter what he had done, and so, for
the third time, he made his way over to Ireland to care for his father.
When he arrived at the Dublin hospital
where his father was being cared for it was to discover an empty hospital bed,
a will on the bedside table and a repossessed house. With no planes flying out
due to the countless predictions of, the now dubbed “Devil Storm,” Lawrence had
gone into Dublin proper in search of a place to stay. After two useless
information desks and eight booked hotels without vacancy, he saw a small sign
on a corkboard in town advertising a, six-bedroom bed and breakfast in a place
named Chatham Cove.
Now, Lawrence lay on his back, just
as he had fallen asleep. He lay awake, still in his dress shirt, now crumpled
and creased, partially tucked into his still buckled pants, red patterned socks
barely hanging on his feet. He looked at his watch, still belted to his left wrist,
which told him it was 3:19 A.M. For a moment, he laid unmoving, gathering his
thoughts and trying to find some sadness in him. Although his father was not
great, nor did he love, Lawrence had begun to think, in the trips he made to
visit him in the hospital, that they had a shot at recreating their
relationship. Even so, Lawrence could not find any fragment in him that mourned
his father’s death. With this realization, he sat up in bed swinging his legs
to the ground, standing up and walking into the bathroom with the sole purpose
of taking a long, steaming shower. Never once did he open the curtains of his
small window to reveal the madness that was the Devil Storm outside.
Love,
The Blonde and the Bullshit
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